


Amsterdam

by AmyLerajie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyLerajie/pseuds/AmyLerajie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paraphrasing what it is usually said: what happen in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam.<br/>Known as a city where illegal becomes legal, it's not the destination to suggest to mend a broken heart.<br/>More than that, what can one understand about the complexity of the city, full of history, art and contradictions?<br/>The answer will surprise you -and it surprised Iceland, to say the least-: a lot.<br/>You only need to have the best guide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amsterdam

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! This will be a long story and a long translation. The original, Italian story is about 20k words, but for this translation I am adding bits and pieces and editing a lot, so don't expect more than a chapter per month.  
> This story contains a lot onf informations on the city of Amsterdam. If you happen to live there (lucky you!) and you notice something weird, please let me know. The same goes for my English.  
> I hope you will enjoy this story and you will end by appreciating those two the way I love them.

Iceland could not say how they got there. Where _there_ is in a bad hotel in Amsterdam and the smell of smoke and alcohol lingers in the air. _Brennivin_. He is almost certain that everything happened because of that heavenly -and devilish- liquor. Or maybe it was the absinthe? The weed?

He puts his leg between the man's, parting them as he kisses him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt as he try to lay him on the bed. He realizes that he is too tall and swears between his lips.

Netherlands tastes of alcohol and smoke, a taste of the forbidden, an adult word that the Icelander can't openly reach.

But they are in Amsterdam and, as some may say, there are many wonders in the city. One of them is the man softly moaning in the kiss, Eirìk's knee pressed against his manhood, rubbing it like he knew exactly how to touch him.

Eirìk is confused, his mind dizzy for the lack of oxygen and the persistent presence of the man's hands on the lower of his back. He can't remember clearly if he was that tall, when they started. And, being honest with himself for the first time in a whole year, he couldn't care less.

A part of him tries to warn him: this is not supposed to happen for any reason.

Iceland considers the melody of the taller man's moans as a rightful reason to persist.

He remembers. It's just a moment, a breath taken just before collapsing for the lack of air, exception made for that stolen from Jan.

«Jan... » Eirìk moans, finally pushing him on the bed, straddling him as he really could escape from his tight embrace. The old bed welcomes their weight creaking as if it was to collapse at any moment -downstairs, judging by the floor noise.

He knows! He was just like that, on his lap, when they started kissing. It's his damned Dutch drugs that made him forget the important things. Like when to stop caring about what the woman at the reception would think seeing him with his hands gripped tightly on the man's arm.

«Your father will kill me.» Jan whispers, in yet another weak objection that should stop the Icelandic. It started with _you're not my type_ and went through _you're too young_ many times before this one. Eirìk's has only one answer to them.

«What a shame.»

He rolls his hips on him, sensually, teasing the Dutchman beyond the impossible, moving his hands hastily on his body, under his shirt, on his skin, as if he could vanish at any moment. He licks his lips before a deep kiss, preventing further protests.

Going to the Netherlands, to its infamous capital city to see the city's museums... that was the plan. He is not one to travel looking for sex or drugs, he is usually too shy for that. No, that is not in his usual behaviour, then why is he trying to get man in front of him naked as fast as possible?

Jan is a man. A grown man, taller than him, looking a lot older than him, too. Their apparent age difference must have elicited some thoughts in the receptionist, but he can't remember clearly. He can't even think if it was a man or a woman, but he remembers a bright pink nail polish, somehow.

The Dutchman finally seems to find the strenght to push him away, firmly but still too gentle not to be ashamed of himself. He feels like a doll or a small child, as the man puts him far, on the mattress, looking flustered, aroused, but decided to stop that make out session right there at that moment.

Jan then sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, ruffled hair hiding his green eyes.

«You're a nice guy. Really, you're smart and I like talking to you, but you're drunk and this is wrong. God! What the hell was I thinking? You're his son!» He says, punching the mattress, which protests loudly.

Iceland does not know what to say. His head is spinning for the alcohol and the excitement, but the sudden interruption tinted his cheeks with bright red and he feels a bit more rational than the person who came through the door some minutes before.

And he is mortified. He didn't want this. He didn't want Jan to look so unhappy, he just wanted to spend the evening with him, as always, hoping the time will stretch and they would have countless hours before parting.

He wanted to have a part of him to cherish before saying goodbye.

He wants to hug him and tell him how sorry he is, try to make up for the huge mistake, but at the same time, a selfish part of him wants to punch him in the face for stopping what it feels like the best thing, the perfection of one of the fleeting moments in life never repeating. He reaches out to him, then balls his fists on his own thighs, as if to punish them for disobeying and wanting to avoid further damage.

«I'll walk you to the hotel.» Jan whispers, as it was a long reasoned conclusion and the right thing to do. Eirìk observes him as he stands up and holds out his hand.

The Icelandic boy looks to one side, unable to look at his face. He wants to stop him. He wishes he was able to find the right words, to confess the feeble yet scary feeling that has slowly grown in him during that week.

«Eirìk, nothing happened, you go back to the hotel and then to sleep, without alcohol in your body will feel a lot more like yourself.» Jan adds in a conciliatory tone. It looks fake and his eyes wanders on the smaller figure of the Icelander, his forehead furrowed and the jaw tight.

Iceland takes his hand and squeeze it, but doesn't look at him. His gaze lingers on the ground while walking the reverse path towards the reception.

Jan talks to the person with whom they have talked before. He is friendly and she laughs cheerfully. The receptionist is a woman, but he doesn't want to look up to see if she has painted nails or not.

He staggers behind the Dutchman and without even realizing they are in a taxi. His head remains firmly turned to the side in which he knows that there will be no green-eyed man, as he lets go of his hand.

Suddenly, he feels hollow. 


End file.
